


Hate to Love

by stargategeek



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargategeek/pseuds/stargategeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the things that Petyr Baelish hates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate to Love

He hates the way the memory of her seems to haunt him at night. He hasn't slept in a proper bed in years because of how wretched it makes him feel.  
It had almost become a ritual, to stare at the luxurious queen sized downy stuffed mattress with silk handwoven sheets, tasseled pillows, and thick quilted throw. A bed fit for a King gone to waste. He'd look at it for a long time, debating whether or not he would sleep in it on this night or the next. Wondering what dreams he would have, what memories would taunt him, what faces he would see. He knew what face was there. What face was always there. Each night he opted for a large chair in front of his desk in his personal chambers, wrapped in his favorite sheepskin, a skin of wine and a welcoming goblet. He would drink only enough to relax his muscles and tire his mind, then he would read or work, until his body forced him to rest all on its own. There were no dreams, there was no empty space beside him. There was no one to miss and no wretched reminder that she was never going to be there. Indeed his body was not fond of his methods, he woke up with the occasional sore neck and numb leg, and his back was tight, but his mind and his heart didn't ache, and in that there was a comfort. He had ached too much in his life.  
That didn't stop him though from staring at the bed every night and pretending that she would come. That she was going to be there when he woke up, that maybe this life was all an elaborate dream and he would wake up 15 years younger, and there she would be, as he tenuously remembered her.

~~~~

He hates the way Ned looks at him. As if he were inferior, more pathetic than he'd imagined from the stories, as if his weakness oozed off of him like a sap. 

He smiles as congenially as he can but he can't shake the lingering burn of hatred that he had wallowed in as a child. He hated the way Ned reminded him of the other one. The Stark. He couldn't look at one without seeing a memory of the other. Suddenly other memories come back little by little. These small blades stab at him increasingly; more painful than the Stark himself had been. All he wants to know is about her. He yearns to ask if Cat ever talked about him, even in a brotherly fashion, or if she had told Ned everything. Had she kept any souvenirs of him? Did she talk about their summers together fondly? Had she told their children whimsical stories about the small little boy in Riverrun who wanted too much?

He hasn't the gall to ask in front of the small council. He does mention the scar though; he does mention the duel; he does mention her - as he remembered her. All red hair and eyes as big as the ocean. 

He is surprised and a little amused at how uncomfortable Ned looks as he mentions her name.

~~~~

He hates the way he forgets himself around her. All at once he is that little boy vying for her affection and attention once more. He can't stop himself from leaping to his feet the moment she comes into his view, she looks just the way he remembered her...the last time he saw her.  
The last time he saw her he was kneeling on the banks of the River he had once considered his favorite place. She was looking down at him with disappointment and maybe a little pity written plainly across her face. The last time he saw her was the last time he had loved anything. 

He hated the way it all melted away the moment their eyes met. The way his heart quickened its pace in his chest, the way his arms still yearned to wrap around her, to touch her, to mean something to this callous fiery-haired high-born lady who had made it perfectly clear how little this little boy had meant to her then and still meant to her now.

He hated how he still hoped.

He should've expected her anger. He moved out of the way just in the nick of time not to be walloped in the head with the letter he had written her. This is probably what she had done to all his letters. All his poems and words that he had used to tell her how far he was willing to go just for a taste. She only ever threw those words out like they were excrement. 

In barely a moment he was reminded that he was a little fool.

Still, he couldn't help smiling as she ranted and raved so passionately at him bringing her to his establishment. She looked so lovely with her red hair billowing around her head like fire. He wanted to kiss her, but he remained in place. Coward, always the coward.

~~~~

He hates the way she says those words.

Hiding in the shadows of a great window above them as they embrace each other, kissing each other goodbye. A pang of jealousy surges through him. 

She gave him little more than a soft half-smile and and curt nod of the head in farewell. She was grateful for his help but it changed very little about how she felt about him. It hurt more than he wanted it to. 

Through the entire exchange as she clung to her husband he could do nothing but emotionally distance himself, otherwise it would read plainly on his face as if it was written there. The way her hands rested affectionately on Ned's arms as she talked of their plan. How lovingly she gazed at him, and accepted his touch. He tried not to be affected but his whole body burned with longing. 

It was all so easy for the Starks to get what he wanted. 

Did she do it on purpose? To remind him that she wasn't his? He certainly didn't need one, he had fifteen years of empty beds, lonely nights and a long scar across his chest to remind him of how much the Starks had taken from him. 

Maybe she didn't mean anything by it. Maybe she simply didn't notice or didn't care about what he felt. She certainly hadn't when they were children. Maybe she still didn't understand.

Any consolation dissolves though when he hears her say those words. The words she says when she doesn't think he's around to hear. 

Ned obviously can see. He states it out loud as clear and blunt as a block of ice. 

 "He still loves you."

His breath stops, his heart flutters. He watches in eagerness waiting for her to respond. Her face, his eyes are glued to her face, gaging every blink and twitch. His hands clutch at the ornate shutter of his brothel window. Anything to give herself away, he'd take it. He'd feed it, and give it life. If even only a fraction of her has the smallest bit of feeling it would be his and his alone. He's praying. God, he's praying! For a flicker! It all could mean something. The duel, the scar; fifteen years of sleepless dreaming and phantom aching. For a sliver.

It all dissolves once again with three bitter and bleak words.

 "Does he now."

Not a question, not a surprise. A cold, distant acknowledgement of a conclusion she was already very well aware of. He dies a little once again. There was no flicker, no hint of warmth in those oceanic eyes. 

He is fifteen again, on the banks of the river, blood gushing out of a long wound, freshly opened. She is there walking away from him once again without a single look behind her to give him hope.

He decides he hates those words more than he should given this is the second time he's heard them.

**Author's Note:**

> Another little writing experiment. Seeing how far it goes. Primarily Petyr/Cat to begin with but will eventually turn Petyr/Sansa.


End file.
